


it's a lovely day in stricklake month

by tascheter



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Don't copy to another site, F/M, i met these dweebs almost a year ago exactly and since then my life has not known peace., keenswimmers2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-07
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:28:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25733596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tascheter/pseuds/tascheter
Summary: and i am a horrible crow. :')
Relationships: Barbara Lake/Walter Strickler | Stricklander
Comments: 70
Kudos: 87





	1. affection

**Author's Note:**

> much like [my other prompt collection](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23014420/chapters/55028341), this is a repository for what i envision essentially as peeks into my sketchbook. (the other collection is also mostly stricklake, if you'd like to check it out; the only difference is these fills are for a preestablished [prompt list](https://f0xlight.tumblr.com/post/625354313509797888/in-celebration-of-the-upcoming-wizards-premiere).) they're not exactly as 'polished' as my main-length fics, or as narratively coherent, but they _are_ a great excuse to be headcanon/dumb romo on main, so: here we are. :')

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> somewhere in late s1 · cw: i want turkish food now · local human lady dating normal human man: film at 11

She is, without question, absolutely going to die. Barbara Lake, MD, has finally gotten a Friday night off, and she's going to _die_ , because her son's _extremely_ handsome history teacher is sitting right across from her at her kitchen breakfast bar, on said Friday night, because this is a date—they're on a _date_ —and even here, even now, she can't think about it too hard for fear that she maybe—just a little—just might spontaneously combust.

It's only the third or fourth time they've gotten together like this. (She's still not sure if that time at Benoit's morning rush counted, mostly because it had been more embarrassing than anything, but that iced coffee _had_ made his shirt go kind of transparent, clinging attractively to all sorts of angles, so she's willing privately to consider it a win.) Still: she feels just as jittery and excited as the first time. They'd decided to order out—she's optimistic, not a fool; she'd learned her lesson, after that pie—and, _still_ , when he'd shown up like _that_ , dressed all sharp and _tailored_ and _handsome_ in that little black jacket, toting a bag that smelled like heaven and looked like it was holding about three times the amount of food it rightly should—

"Is Turkish alright?" He'd looked for a moment like he'd almost expected her to say _no_ , as if he'd really have turned right around, if she'd asked; the thought had made her feel something impossibly gentle. "I know we'd been thinking about that little trattoria off Clarke and Knox, but I woke up with a craving for gözleme, somehow, and..."

He'd looked so eager, so hesitant. Half-boyish, in the sunset. In the end: she'd only swooned a little.

"Alright, then. My turn." They're just finishing their desserts, now, just sitting around lounging and asking each other all the cliché getting-to-know-you questions they still somehow haven't got through, and its more fun than she thinks either of them really know how to admit. She wipes a last crumb of baklava from her lip with her thumb as she thinks—memory still fresh with butter and pistachio, honey and rosewater—and debates having another go at the strong, strongly-spiced coffee he'd made them, which she's still not entirely sold on. "What about...hm. Okay: would you consider yourself an affectionate person?"

It feels incredibly corny, to just _ask_ him, like this. She has a brief, intense flashback to highschool, where such questions had been the topic of many a sleepover disputation. Sometimes just about the only ones she felt she could get in on.

But to her combined terror and delight, his expression actually turns thoughtful.

"I...would say so, yes." He sounds so—deliberate. So _serious_ , all just for a corny date-night question, and despite herself she can't help realizing just how fast her heart is beating. "Although I suppose the answer really depends on how we define _affection_."

Which, okay. When he says it with that look? Is _definitely_ flirting.

She can't help giggling, just a little. Just slightly nervous, even still. Because—come on. Right there, in her kitchen, he's asking her _that_? She'd half-wonder if she was dreaming, if it didn't feel so weirdly, viscerally _real_.

"Getting philosophical on me already?"

He darts her a quick, knowing look, oblique and glancing and _extremely_ attractive. "My dear, I'm a highschool history teacher. If I don't define my terms, I'm eaten alive."

She laughs, trying to hide it as much as he can into her mug. Because—fuck. She really does have it _bad_.

"Okay, well." She dares a look up to him, just to make sure this isn't too much. "Let's start with—hm. What about...love languages?"

He stifles a snort, but only nods, as graciously as he can. "Well. _Com dist la dame_."

" _Walter_."

He _definitely_ laughs at that. Which—well. She's going to take as a good sign. Because even if she doesn't remember much highschool French, she remembers _enough_ , and—he's right there, flirting with her, with _terrible_ , cross-language _puns_ , and this is a _date_ , the first one she's been on in years where she's actually laughing, too. Something flutters dangerously in her chest.

"I must admit, though," he says, almost conspiratorially, "you do have me at something of a disadvantage. When the question is posed by such a charming companion—"

She tries (not very successfully) to hide a laugh.

"Really, Strickler?" She summons up her best _don't lie to me, I'm a doctor_ voice. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

He grins back at her, quick and sharp. "Not so much, in my experience. But merely to say—the question calls for careful deliberation." He swirls his mug, just lightly, still flirty but thoughtful, now. "I wouldn't rule out any of them at the outset, of course. I'm not an _ingrate_."

"Oh, for sure." She leans forward, trying not to look too invested. "Embarrassment of riches? I get it."

He nods. "And it depends too, of course, on the particular context. Take— _words_ , for example."

"Alright."

"In—the abstract, let's say, I'm appreciative. Occasionally very much so." His cheeks flush, just a bit, and then he's looking carefully somewhere into his coffee, and a small, bright-eyed part of her thinks: oh. _Oh_. (Does Walter Strickler is _praise kink_? Intriguing. A curiosity to investigate later.) "I concede it has appeal. And the reputation of a silver-tongued charmer certainly has its perks, I admit—"

She nods, attentively, making it all of halfway into a thought about _silver tongue_ and _its uses_ and _you have me at a disadvantage_ before something short circuits and her face feels very, _very_ warm.

"But words are— _can_ be imperfect. Even, perhaps especially, if sincerely meant." He gives her a significant look, one she thinks she's not quite supposed to notice. And even as she knows he must see her blush, even as she has a hard time imagining him having trouble being _misunderstood_ , of all things, his expression's gone so open, so disarming, she doesn't want to ruin the moment with teasing. "So too with—er. What are the others. Gifts, service? And..."

"Quality time?"

"That! Ah, there we go."

"But that still leaves one left. Which is—touch." She looks up to him, thoughtfully. She doesn't want to say _expectantly_ , though she's certainly thinking it loudly. And—for as fast as her heart is beating, she wants to reassure him, somehow, even if she's not quite sure for what. "Mister Strickler. Are you trying to tell me...you're _touchy-feely_?"

He snorts. The sound is so sudden, so genuine, it evidently takes him by surprise; in any event, he goes a very charming shade of pink.

"I guess I don't exactly cultivate the impression." He sounds—not quite embarrassed. But—if she understands the idiom—almost like he's been _seen_. "I'm sure I don't show it. Growing up, we—my circumstances weren't exactly the most affectionate."

Which, _oh_ , something in her heart _breaks_ to hear, and it must be obvious on her face because his eyes go so wide, and—

"Not—it wasn't like that," he hurries to explain. "Please, don't misunderstand me. I grew up in—it was an unusually loving household. Including towards myself. But touch, it's—" He looks away, somehow tongue-tied, and for as strange as it is to see she can't help but feel something immense, as she does. "I'm not sure how to explain it. It's always held some superior appeal, somehow."

The silence stretches, for a moment. Not unpleasantly, but—just noticeably.

"This must sound—I don't know." He gives a self-conscious little laugh, just to break the tension. "I suppose it sounds a bit ridiculous, in the end."

His eyes dart away, a quick flicker of green in her kitchen light. It's endearing, bizarrely; he's so cool and confident otherwise, so stupidly, _ridiculously_ attractive, she wasn't exactly expecting he'd be _self-conscious_.

"No! Walt, no, not at all. I mean, not to be corny, or anything—" She reaches, without thinking, to take his hand in hers. "But I'm glad you felt comfortable enough to tell me."

The smile he gives her is so small, but so _perfect_. And then—

 _Touch_ , she thinks, softly. _Alright. Touch? I can definitely do._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not bad, i think, for a little while out of the prompt saddle? a little too maudlin, and i kept veering into other ideas ([love languages!!](https://dreamcrow.tumblr.com/post/625582249007579136/dreamcrow-earlier-in-the-week-i-saw-this)). but ah: soft idiots. feels good to be home (*´ω｀*)


	2. comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> future fic · you've heard of all hurt no comfort now get ready for: no hurt all comfort · (or at least: no hurt specifically defined) · cozy levels: CRITICAL · if yr man is havin a struggle, perhaps consider...the snuggle

He makes a soft noise, somewhere under the pile of covers beside her. It's not urgent, exactly, just—it's a sound she's become particularly attentive to, over the past couple times they've done this. The meaning, so far as she's been able to gather, seems to vary between _snack please_? and _scootch closer_ and _thank you darling_ ( _i love you_ ). It's generally a good noise, as far as she can tell; it's one, consequently, that she wants to encourage.

This time, it's something closer to the second meaning, so although she's already curled up close against his side it's no trouble to rearrange things. She pulls her knees up, and he lifts his hands, still clasped tight around his mug, and it's quick work to throw her legs across his lap. All still under the blankets. It's raining outside, which she can imagine isn't making him feel any better. She knows that he gets cold, now, at least more easily than he used to (as evinced by the blankets, plural, in what's only the beginning of a gentle California fall, and the mug of tea he's still holding onto with Evident Purpose).

She threads her arm around his, being careful not to jostle. (He might be made of stone, but she knows how tender and yielding that flesh can be; she knows too, even now, how novel gentleness can be.) When she leans her head into his shoulder, just gently, she can hear a quiet little sigh of appreciation.

"Still doing okay?" She can't resist asking. He's usually napping by this point in the day, so she's not sure if it's the caffeine or the ache that's keeping him up. "We can always switch gears, if you're tired of watching me fail at _Mario Kart_."

"It's not 'failing' if you finish in the first three places. I'm very reliably informed."

"That's just little Walt being nice."

He groans, almost despite himself. Though she can hear an edge of humor to it, too, to her tangible relief.

"Impeccable bedside manner as always, my dear."

"Well, you know what the kids say. _Get good, scrub_."

At that, he actually laughs. Small and soft, but pleasantly real. It makes her heart ache, and she is in _love_ , to hear it, so, and something frustrated and small twinges inside her chest that she can't simply _make_ him feel better. She leans her head into his shoulder.

"We could also always just. Y'know. Take a nap, if you want."

Another noise— _soft protest_ , this time. "I don't think I could sleep, to be honest."

"D'you think you want another ibuprofen?"

"The last ones didn't do much." And more would probably result in the same, he doesn't need to say; she might be a doctor, but she's only licensed for humans, and he's had a _very_ long time knowing what does and doesn't work for his body. "Mostly, though, I think...I think I want you to not get up."

He pulls his arm just gently closer, then. Along with her, by extension. The fact that he's asking so plainly—so _clearly_ —she curls in, as close as she can.

She knows how long it's taken, for him to get comfortable with asking her like that. Even here, in their home; even like this, even for this.

"I do enjoy watching you," he adds, surprisingly insistent for how quiet his voice is. He pulls his feet up under the blankets, all gingerly and deliberate, all long lovely dinosaur claws and weirdly human-readable shyness. It's _incredibly_ endearing, and it makes her heart do something agonizing, to look at it. "I'm a poor copilot, but... _a leal partisan. Always and ever._ "

He says the last bit in changeling, which—she presses her cheek again against his arm. It means any of a number of things, normally, but now, mostly, she suspects it means he's tired, and achy. And still: he takes the effort of saying it.

And he might not be cold-blooded, exactly. But she _knows_ her hands are warm, to him.

"Well. Alright." She looks up to him seriously. "What about...a movie, then?

He freezes, obviously nonplussed. From the corner of her eye she catches herself driving rather dramatically off a cliff, but—she can't care, not really; not when the sight before her—her friend, her husband, her _leal partisan_ —is so lovely, and so tired, and honestly, her hands are _right_ there.

"Well..." He sounds—cautious. But—however hesitant, under the fog and the soreness and fatigue—he also sounds a little intrigued. "What are our options?"

"Well. The kids have cannibalized the VCR"—why, she's not sure, only that all three of them are simultaneously entering their _but_ _how does it wooork_ stage and neither of the adults in the house had been able to explain well enough to stop them—"and I'm under _very_ strict instructions not to move." She squeezes her arm around his again, looking up just enough to appreciate his resulting little blush. "Which leaves us with the cloud. But we've watched all our movies in there so many times, recently, with the exception of..."

They'd downloaded it weeks ago. Mostly because Otto hadn't believed them, when they'd tried to tell him, _yes really, this was a real movie, it came out in theaters and we both saw it and everything_. But then the kids had gotten distracted, with the new _Gun Robot_ reboot, and taking apart the VCR, and their upcoming trip with Jim, and—the file had _lingered_.

" _Fuck_ ," he breathes. "Space whales?"

" _Space whales_ , Mr. Stricklander."

He gives her a near-unreadable look.

"Properly, we should _really_ start with _The Wrath of Khan_. But for you, I'm willing to make an exception." She presses a kiss against his shoulder, just gently. "Special circumstances, and all."

They spend a moment, just looking at each other. He takes a sip of tea. Then: 

"Very well," he replies, with just the hint of a laugh. "Make it so, my dear."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is barb a peach main or an isabelle main, and does the answer change for smash? discuss below.
> 
> ~~h-how bout that _wizards_ , guys~~


	3. competition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> mild miscommunication · brief spoilers for my version of eventual stricklake mawwiage · Getting Invested About Baking · implied lenmura...?

" _Walt_!"

He's perched thoughtfully at the end of their breakfast bar when he hears her shout, coming from the foyer. He'd been flicking through their cookbook, idly wondering what they might make for dinner—but he startles, at the sound of her voice, just enough to look up and see her scrambling into the hallway.

"Walt," she says, breathless and wide-eyed as she skids around the corner, into the kitchen. "We have a problem. A major, _major_ problem."

She looks—terrified. Something in him shifts at the sight, clean and clearly as a switch being flipped, and in the absence of anything concrete his mind jumps to the worst. He'd always known this was going to happen, he thinks. Somewhere, a part of him had always known things wouldn't last like this.

He summons a knife to his hand, without hesitation, without thought.

"Barbara," he breathes. "I—what's wrong?"

"I—I don't know. I just got off the phone with Nomura, she told me—she said she hadn't even talked to Lenora, yet." The words come so quickly, so disjointed; she must be trying not to panic, and his heart aches, to see her so valiant. "I hadn't heard from her yet this week, so I'd called her on the way back from work. But she picked up on the first ring, and—when she told me, I didn't know who else to go to—"

 _—and whenever you are in need of me you shall have me. Your enemies are my enemies, what strength I may have, your own_. _My blade is yours, darling, sworn solemn to your hand, for as long as you will have it—_

He'd meant the words, then. An oath sworn low and soft and intent, standing, just the two of them, on the overlook above town; red thread tied quick and fast around the other's wrist, the new weight of the pearl present and steady on his ear, the first time he'd ever called her _áhttar_ in English. And he means to live up to them now.

But this is all very thin information to go on. He starts running through a mental list of every and any party he's ever run afoul of, cross-referencing with whichever of them might still be alive. It's...a fairly long list, all things considered.

Still: they'd had a plan for this. Contingencies on contingencies on contingencies is what he _does_. Or— _did_ , anyway. Married life is bliss, but it hasn't changed him that much.

And now—even though, maybe especially because it's for her—he can't bring himself to be self-conscious.

"Don't panic," he says. Mostly because—it's the only thing he can think to say, at the moment, and his mind is working faster than his tongue can follow. The bags are upstairs in their room, stuffed into the bottom of their closet, half-buried and only half-packed—but soft idyllic married life or no he's still sharp enough to remember how this song goes. His knives go where he does, and she keeps hers on their dresser; it'll be easy enough to grab it on the way. "I'll get our things. Can you keep the car running?"

"The car? Walt, I don't—"

"That's alright. I'll drive. I won't be a moment—"

He makes to head up the stairs, striding with purpose and intent. To his surprise, though, she only—throws her arms around him. It stops him, dead in his tracks.

"I know this is stupid," she says, voice achingly small. She pulls herself to him so tightly, and her voice is so _urgent_. "I just—I didn't know who else to ask, because—if Lenora and Bagdwella win this year _again_ they're going to be _insufferable_."

Which—wait. What?

He looks down at her, gingerly. "... _Win_?"

"Yeah? I mean, the bakeoff is—" She returns his look, faintly puzzled expression turning wide-eyed again. "Wait. Oh, god. Walt—what did you think I meant?"

"The _bakeoff_?"

" _Walt_."

Then: she's laughing. Light and glancing and _warm_ , in the confines of their kitchen; possibly not directly _at_ him, which—doesn't make this any _less_ embarrassing, actually. Even if—still, the sudden sensation of relief is a tangible thing, a living weight drawn off of his chest.

He buries his face in her hair. The heat over his cheeks is _intolerable_.

"...Old habits die hard, my dear."

" _Babe_."

Pressed against his chest as she is, he can feel her trying not to laugh aloud.

(Never let it be said he isn't _grateful_.)

"I know this sounds crazy," she says, after they both catch their breath some. The pout she's acquired is—unfamiliar, but—as he looks at her, still with her arms linked close around his waist, entertaining the possibility that this might not be a life-or-death crisis, it's actually incredibly endearing. "And—I know it's probably cheating to come to you about it. I mean, aside from Jim, you taught me everything I know about cooking."

"I didn't know Lenora was going to do it this year." He certainly hadn't heard of this from Nomura. Especially strange, since the bakeoff is only two weekends away. "Hasn't she been busy working with the realtors? The last time we talked she told me she was going on sabbatical."

"That's what I thought too! Nomura was saying—something about 'wanting to get that _dumb human bullshit_ out of her system?' Before signing on the house." Her accent on the swears is so charming, he can't help grinning, a little, even if he turns his head so she doesn't see. "But when she told me Lenora had finally wheedled that recipe out of her—"

A soft, short intake of breath. He knows, now, the warning was a gift, if Nomura was willing to reveal such an advantage to Barbara so freely; even more so when it confers such an advantage over Lenora.

But—well. He can suddenly see why Barbara had come home in such a state.

 _Playing dirty,_ adi _?_

"Well." He reaches across the countertop, to find her hand and lace his fingers through hers. "If Nomura has shown her hand...I suppose that means we should officially submit ourselves to the competition."

Her fingers pull tight around his, and she looks up to him.

"Wait." She sounds incredulous. In an _excellent_ way, in the _best_ way. "Wait, Walt, are you— _really_?"

"It'll definitely be cheating, a little. _Mostly because it's me_ ," he adds, in _nǒnat_ , mostly because she's quick enough at it to understand him now and only partly because there are _conventions_ , for boasts, there are _rules_. "But you were right. We can't let Lenora—and by extension, Nomura—get bragging rights at the farmer's market for the _third_ year in a row. _Especially_ when Jim is the judge, _áhttar_ , it would be a disaster."

She squeals, just a little.

"And, as I believe I told you once: whenever you are in need of me, you shall have me." He's warming to the thought, now, he can't deny it. And—after the rush of thinking they were actually in danger—the thought of doing something like this, something so domestic, so _mundane_ , it's intriguing. "Now: let's look through these cookbooks, and see what kind of trouble we can bring."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not as _entirely_ satisfied with this as i might've been...but it's done, and i got to inflict some dumb romo marriage shenanigans on everyone, and also got to play with misunderstanding and misdirection. plus now i get to think of them entering a bakeoff, so: win/win imo. >:3c


	4. enchanted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> remember that time you thought everyone was gonna die and your now-bf gave you a magic knife for absolutely no reason · yeah about that · (set in the nearish future of [_all that dazzling dawn has put asunder_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23730202))

"And you're sure this is...I don't know." She looks down to the knife in her hand—solid and _cool_ , a little line of runes still glowing faintly down the center—and tries to calm some of the butterflies in her stomach. "I mean, I know it's magic. But is it— _legit_?"

He snorts. "For what it's worth, you know. I'm very good at what I do." He makes a face, then, and quickly amends: "Or—at what I _used_ to do."

"It's not that I don't trust you!" She can feel herself blushing, which she doesn't want to do, she didn't mean it like that. But she knows, too, that he's lived through quite a lot of people who did, so she recenters herself and tries her best to explain. "It's just—weird, y'know. To think about it so straight-on."

He shoots her a soft smile. One she's been seeing more of, lately; it's reassuring, something that feels like it's just theirs. It's something she decidedly wants to encourage.

"One thing at a time, _áhttar._ "

She's noticed him using that nickname more often lately, too. It sounds like a word she vaguely recognizes—maybe from their kitchen, when they were fixing that book? that's the first time she can remember him speaking _troll_ to her, anyway—but she can't be entirely sure from where. She's still not quite sure what it means.

 _Not knowing_ , though, is coming a little easier these days. Which is the whole point of this little exercise: to make the _not knowing_ a little bit less.

And also, maybe, to teach her some sick magic tricks. Because this is her life now. Because of _course_ it is.

They're sitting out on her back step, just enjoying the outside. As they often do, lately. Or—mostly enjoying. A stress-free environment would make things easier, he'd explained, and it's not exactly like she's going to complain about sitting outside and lounging in the sun. Especially not with her—with her _boyfriend_ , freshly minted (re-minted?) just two weeks earlier.

And she's not stressed. Not exactly. Just—jittery. Because who doesn't get _jittery_ when their _boyfriend_ offers to teach them _magic_?

"So...you're sure this is going to work, right?"

"I mean, probably." He shrugs, which is just a _wonderful_ reaction, when you ask your magical boyfriend if the magic he's going to teach you is going to kill you. "Humans are perfectly capable of such things, at least as far as I know. You just aren't usually taught."

He must be able to pick up on her nerves, though. Because—he's a lot of things, but definitely perceptive.

"We don't have to do this if you don't want to," he says. Voice all soft and serious, just a bit shy. "I—I can imagine it's a lot, if you've only just discovered this world exists. Which you have, in all fairness."

"Hey." She bats his shoulder, just lightly, with her free hand. "I've got at least, what—a month and a half? Of knowing about the _masquerade_. I should have it under control by now."

They both laugh.

"Well—still. It was a gift," he says. Like that explains everything; like there's any way it doesn't. "It looks very nice, up on your dresser."

She tries not to snort. Then, takes another look at the knife. She still remembers the expression he'd worn, when he'd given it to her—worried and resigned and terrifyingly earnest—and she remembers, too, the weight of it in her pocket. Safe and sure and cool, all throughout the apocalypse-that-wasn't.

"I meant what I told you." She tries desperately to keep her voice from going _whiny_ , and only mostly fails. "I'm a doctor, not—not a _knife fighter_. And, just—once you add magic on top of that—"

"'It's a lot?'"

"It's _definitely_ a lot."

He laughs—a sheepish, self-conscious sound.

"Not _a lot_ that I don't want to learn more about," she's quick to clarify. "I guess—well. I guess you were right." She reaches up, and tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "I guess I still can't really believe _magic_ is a thing that exists."

He shoots her a shy, sideways grin.

"Good thing you've got an expert, then." Without thought, without hesitation, he summons one of his own knives. One quick _blink_ , and then—a feather-shaped blade just _appears_ in his hand, just like that. "One always and ever at your service, my dear."

Then, he twirls the knife around his fingers. The metal is all smooth and sleek and shimmering in the afternoon light, because while he may be an expert he's also _kind_ of a bastard, one who's now, apparently, her boyfriend, and oh god (oh _god_ ) she can already feel her cheeks heating up at the thought so she just bites her lip and looks determinedly over to nothing in particular.

 _You'd best start believing in magic, Miss Lake._ The words come unprompted, a reflexive, unthinking reaction. _Because apparently, that's a thing you can do, now. With your boyfriend (!). Who is magic._

 _And who you don't need an expert to see is really,_ really _good at it._

She swallows. Thinks of—again, of his face when he'd offered her the knife. (Of how that face isn't his, any more.) Of that night, in the attic, of how bold and how helpless he'd been; how stupid, how _brave_.

Then: she takes a deep breath.

"Alright," she says. "So, Mr. Expert. Show me how to do this."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _remember the feel of it in your hand—the texture, the weight; the cold, living song of the metal, against skin—_
> 
> _(the warmth of his palm, so gentle round the back of her hand)_


	5. historic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> extremely non-"canon" post-mawwiage time travel shenanigans · will i ever stop thinking about [_left-hand florilegium_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25459174)? survey says: unlikely · KNIFE BARB??

"I don't like this, Walt."

"Nor I." His eyes narrow, peering into the gloom as best he can with simple human sight. He doesn't dare shift, not this far into the city, but also (Barbara thinks) at least partly because he's still getting used to the thought that he _can_ , again; it's a power he hasn't had for nearly ten years. "But—I don't know what else we can do. We shouldn't stay here. Not after—"

Not after they'd fallen literally out of the sky. Onto a giant, angry troll, one who'd proceeded to try and kill them with absolutely no further provocation; a troll he'd seemed to recognize, which was the weirdest thing. Barbara's seen her husband through thick and thin—through the _end of the world_ , and back again—and she's never seen that exact color of fear on him, before. She doesn't want to ask him about it. It's not something she needs to ask about, right now, not after his eyes had gone _desperate_ , wild and strange, all through that quick, brief fight.

So instead: she just reaches for his hand, and threads her fingers through his.

"Hey," she says, soft as she can. "Like I told you once: we're in this together."

He spares her a haggard little grin. It's more reassuring than she's sure he feels, so she tries to return it in kind. Partly because she's still not exactly sure what exactly they're planning to do—what they _can_ do, at this point—but also, mostly, to remind him: even here, even in another time, he has her.

She feels him squeeze her fingers in return, and it's more direct confidence than he's shown ever since they got here. So. She'll take her wins where she can get them.

For a while, they head on just like that: holding hands in the dark as they chart a path through the gloom. The sight of the cathedral, white as moonlight, massive and _new_ , had stopped him dead in his tracks when they'd first stumbled onto it, and she knows he's—shaken, by the thought of being back here. So she just holds onto him tighter. She can count on one hand the times he's told her about his hometown, and only once in anything more than incidental mentions, followed by subtle, pensive silences she worries she makes too big a deal over.

But if they're really in Winchester—well. Even in the present, she could guess what that would mean. Nothing good, at any rate. And if they're here, now: if holding his hand in her left helps as much as the knife in her right, she'll take it. This, she can do.

She likes to think not much takes her by surprise, anymore. The rift had been an obvious exception: even in her new weird magic-filled life, she hadn't been expecting a _time portal_ , because she's gotten maybe halfway used to magic but she draws the line at fucking _time travel_. They've both been on edge, but it's worse for him, she thinks; for her, this is all the same level of _weirdbadwrong_ , but she can only imagine how weird it must be to wake up—after crashing down in a place you thought you'd left for good—only to realize you're wearing a face you haven't seen, that hasn't existed for ten years. She can't exactly blame him for freaking out.

Both of them, she knows, are trying _very_ hard not to think about what that face means for little Walt. Ex(?)-familiar, the child of strangers; not-kid and not-brother and _adját_ and _son_. Mostly: she's trying to reassure herself that he's with Jim, that he must be back in the _future_ with his brothers and sister, that they're all together, they're _safe_.

(Theoretically. _Theoretically_.)

She's not sure how long they keep going, like that. The city isn't large, he'd told her— _at least not by your modern standards, my dear_ —but deserted streets and distant, infrequent lanterns make walking through the place feel like a strange kind of dream. She has so many things she wants to ask him ( _were all old cities like this, dead after sundown_? _how did the bells not wake you up_? _are we—are we when you lived here, too_?) but she has a hunch the questions might cut a little too close, even now. So: she swallows them back down, and tries to re-center her thoughts.

The one thing she can't get over is how _quiet_ things are. It's properly late, now; he'd guessed they came out a little after midnight. But they've only seen a handful of people since sneaking into the city. Not that there are no sounds—cats, dogs, _rats_ are all here, and every now and then she can hear _something_ from inside closed shutters, or just over a wall—but no _people_. It feels like a ghost town.

Which makes it all the more unsettling when she registers a set of footsteps, trailing behind them over the moonlit stones.

He notices, too. Without turning his head, he pulls her closer to him.

" _We're being followed_."

He says it in changeling, something soft and secret meant only for her to hear. At first, the thought is terrifying; the fact of how he said it, in a language no other human has ever learned, must mean he suspects something. Which—knowing the kind of suspicion he's lived with, across his long life—makes her worry, before everything else.

But the longer she sits with the thought: the _angrier_ she feels.

She squeezes his hand again. " _D'you think—d'you think they might know what happened to us_?"

He huffs, half-amused even under the caution. " _The Order was good, darling. But even_ we _never cracked time travel._ "

" _Does that mean you think it's a changeling_?"

" _I certainly hope not_."

It's not a no. The wariness in his voice is obvious enough, and—she knows—for good reason. They've already dealt with one troll-thing tonight; there's a very small list of entities simultaneously good enough to tail _him_ , and invested enough to try it.

Up 'til now, they've been mostly avoiding the main streets. Some of them had been inevitable—including something called _flæscmangra stræte_ , which sounds vaguely awful (and smelled worse)—but after technically sneaking in through one of the city gates—something, he had assured her, which was very much illegal—they'd been trying to keep a low profile. Which had been helped some, by the clouds—even if it felt like they moved so much slower, without the moonlight—

But they can't keep it up, if they've got a tail.

She sets her jaw. " _Do you want to bump them_?"

" _We'll have to be quick_."

" _C'mon,_ babe." The endearment slips out in English, without thinking. " _Still think I can't keep up with all your cool spy shenanigans_?"

He's not looking at her, but she can _feel_ the roll of his eyes.

" _Alright._ " He sounds resigned. Though—also—like he realizes they don't have many other options. Because, well: they don't. " _In that case…I suppose it's time to improvise._ "

He squeezes her hand, and she gives a determined little nod.

They keep their steady, determined pace up 'til they reach the next little intersection. They turn round the corner, then—without warning—duck into an alleyway, more of a little crevice between buildings than anything else. She's not sure how they fit in, aside from the fact that he's pulled her tight and fast against his chest and both of them, on reflex, have gone deadly still.

" _On three_?"

She takes a deep breath. " _On three, Stricklander._ "

" _One…_ "

" _Two—_ "

"Three!"

They burst back onto the street, moving in perfect tandem, a carefully calibrated balance of two. She summons her knife to her hand, and she can see he's already done the same, when she catches a glimpse of the tail's face, and—

The moon returns, emerging from beneath a slip of cloud.

Distantly, dreamily, she thinks: she'd recognize that face anywhere. Even from under a mop of soft, all-dark hair—there's no mistaking those wide, eerily familiar green eyes.

From the sharp intake of breath she hears beside her, he must see it, too.

"Oh _filz a_ fucking _putain—_!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _flaescmangra straete_ is/was a real street in winchester, close to the cathedral. at the time our poor heroes have been thrown back to, it was where you could find the butchers ("fleshmongers"); a few centuries later, it had turned into the hot and happening place for selling parchment, from which it takes its modern name (parchment street). at the time of posting this fill it is home to an establishment named 'piecaramba!', which sparks immense joy.
> 
> i have complicated feelings about this fill. it definitely feels very expo-y; i also definitely tried to fit way too much in. (i also need to do MASSIVE amounts of research before getting further in _lhf_ , lol.) however, in the end, this was still a highly enjoyable exercise. seeing where someone grew up feels like a very specific kind of intimacy, even if they left that place behind long ago. and i love thinking of what barb would think of walt's tumultous youth! so worth the effort, in the end.


	6. temperature (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> somewhere in the slightly more distant future (six-ish months?) of [_all that dazzling dawn has put asunder_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23730202) · lil (?) bit of praise kink · strap-ons · i believe this is what is called... 'cowboy?' · piv sex · not like their first time but like. maybe third-fourth? still learning but gettin to know each other

He's still taller than her, obviously. Skinnier and heavier, too. And—Barbara trusts him, _obviously_ , especially on the information he volunteers about himself. He's known himself for longer than she has, after all, and—there's a lot, that she trusts him on, nowadays, but _himself_ is a subject she's always willing to concede.

But the thing he always gets wrong is: he doesn't feel cold, to her.

The circumstances of the thought are a little extenuating, to be fair. The real and pleasantly present weight of him over her hips is incredibly distracting; his thighs are so _warm_ , at her sides, and that warmth, paired with everything else—the paradoxical softness of tender, yielding stone, the little hitch and whine of his breath as he works himself slowly (so _slowly_ ) down onto the toy—she's probably not really an unbiased source, here.

"And you're—you're sure you're doing alright?" Her voice feels all strange and soft, in the quiet of her room. And so _earnest_. It feels almost more vulnerable than the being undressed, even if she's also feeling excited and tender and eager and _strange_. "I mean, I think you've been doing great, obviously. It's just— _last_ time, we could—with my hands, I—what I _mean_ is, _you_ , this is still good, for you?"

He laughs, a breathless, self-conscious sound. She's grateful, absurdly, for the fondness of it.

"Merely pacing myself," he explains. "The, er. The _ensemble_ —" He sounds so distracted, in the loveliest way, and she doesn't want to break his concentration. But she has no reference, for this kind of thing—especially one that's shaped so fantastically—and she wants to be sure it's still good. "It's—a lot to process."

She tries, not very successfully, to stifle a snort. Partly because—because of course he talks like that, precise and haughty and _posh_ , even like this. Partly, too, because she's trying to be _gallant_ , of which (she is assured) a critical component is not _laughing_ at your partner; but also partly because when she laughs she's pretty sure it makes her hips move in such a way that makes "a lot to process" considerably more so.

And—anyway, she remembers the pictures from the website. They'd picked it out together, something she couldn't ever imagine doing with James; both of them blushing and flustered, half-giddy with anticipation, an entire evening spent debating the merits and demerits of various textures (intriguing) and models ( _definitely_ not human standard-issue) and even _colors_ ("anything but glitter, please"). She's on a _mailing list_ , now. Admittedly she's not great at imagining this kind of thing, but "a lot to process" probably doesn't cover the half of it.

So: she leans back into the pillows, diligent and attentive, and again tries to focus on keeping her hips still as she can. It's such a strange impulse, one she's never really had to think about, before. She can almost understand, she thinks. It's the same principle as saving the nicest bite of dessert for last, or waiting 'til you've got the wine and the bath bomb and the music _just right_ before slipping into the bath.

But he'd made the request special, after all. And—how could she deny such a favor, when it was asked of her so sweetly?

He must notice her expression, though, because he flashes her a quick, anxious little smile.

"Not that _a lot_ is necessarily a bad thing," he explains, too smooth and too easy. Not in a bad way, just—he's breathing so deliberately, so _carefully_ ; something in her heart fairly aches, to see him like this, so patient and intent. "It's just—been a while, since the last time I did this, and—"

"No, no, I— _babe_. I get it." Her first instinct is to pull herself up to him, or him down to her, to touch him and reassure him, but— _hips_ , she reminds herself. So instead, she runs her hand just gently over the top of his thigh, reflexive and unthinking. What she isn't expecting is how his wings _flutter_ at the touch, nor how something in her brain kind of short-circuits, a little, at the thought; she's suddenly, acutely aware of how hard she must be blushing. "I was just—appreciating."

" _Appreciating_ ," he huffs. He shifts his weight back, just a bit—she doesn't miss the soft little noise he makes, as he does, still building up to take the last couple inches—and pauses, just for a moment, just to catch his breath. "As if I'm not the one who should be— _appreciative_ , in this arrangement."

"Are you kidding?" She tries not to laugh. Not in a rude way, just—all bubbly and excited and anxious; like she's floating on a cloud, even despite two hundred-some pounds of living stone—above her, _riding_ her. The thought is— _a lot_ , as he'd said, and she catches herself blinking, even in the dark, still half-incredulous that this isn't a dream. "I mean—after all, I'm not the one doing all the hard work, here—"

He looks down to her, fondly. Still breathing carefully, still just—pleasantly concentrating. He stays like that, just for a moment, before catching her hand and pulling it to his lips for a kiss.

"All your _hard work_ ," he murmurs, half-laughing, half-enchanted, "is the _least_ of my problems."

His voice is so delicate, even around the blatant flirting. The sound of it—the _thought_ of it, of the meaning, behind the words—makes her heart do a funny little wobble, and all she can do, looking reverently up to him, is swallow.

She'd been so _nervous_ , is the thing. (Another thing she definitely doesn't remember from James.) Not a bad kind of nervous— _definitely_ not—but the inventory of skills she can apply here feels so limited. They'd fooled around, back when— _before_ , when he'd still had a human body, and she'd thought, at the time, that she'd had a pretty decent handle on how this game was played. And, yeah, they've fooled around now, too. More than fooled around, she thinks. And even now—because this body is him, too, she—it might be different, from what she'd expected, but she wants it to become familiar. To learn what feels good, for him, to—to _get good_ , at giving that feeling back. She might not understand what he feels, or how he feels it; mostly because she doesn't understand how _anyone_ feels it. But she does understand _generosity_ , and _reciprocity_ , and—whatever these big dumb feelings are, the ones coming _dangerously_ close to something she thought she'd never feel again. And for him? 

She takes a deep breath. She realizes, distantly, that—that her cheeks have gone _very_ warm.

On a sudden, dreamy instinct: she flips her wrist, and takes his hand in hers. Presses a kiss, soft and light, against the back of his fingers—just like he had, for her.

"Least I could do," she says, softly, "when you've been so good."

She's not always great at telling when he's blushing. Especially not in the low light of their bedroom, lit only by the moon and the faint, distant nightlight in the hall. But she definitely sees him blink. And then—she's pretty sure—she sees a flush of rich, emerald green, over his cheeks, _right_ down his neck and all over his chest, and—

Well. It's a _very_ good sight, all things considered.

"I mean it." She squeezes his hand, because—she's feeling very mushy, all of a sudden, and—she can't look at him, while she says it, but she's not exactly sure what else to do, how to make herself understood. "You've been working so hard at this. This is—this is all new for me, but you've been nothing but patient, and—Walt, you're doing so _well_ —"

Which—fuck. It's _true_ , in the first place, but—is this the kind of thing people say, during sex? She's not sure. Part of her worries: she's _babbling_. He'd seemed to react pretty well to praise, if that blush was anything to go by, but—

She darts her eyes back to him, just for a moment. Just for a flash of brief, insane bravery, feeling something— _immense_ , something she doesn't dare try to name. The moonlight creeping through the window casts his whole face in a soft, dreamy glow, and—and she might have come to terms recently with being what her grandmother called _frigid_. But still. She's _fairly_ sure she's never felt this warm.

And when he looks back down to her, in turn, all cavalier and dishevelled and _radiant_ —

Something in her clicks. She might not understand— _sex_ , fine, she's not _ashamed_ , anymore, but—she does understand feelings. She understands herself. And she _wants_ to understand—him, and _this_ , whatever they have between them.

So: lightly as she can, she pulls herself up, and tugs him forward—just gently—into a kiss.

The unexpected sound of surprise he makes is— _very_ good, to be honest. And the way it melts into something warmer—the way he _follows_ her, the way he lets her lead him, like iron to a magnet, like a flower after the sun—the way she feels him relax into the touch of her arms over his shoulders, the full weight of him sliding _all_ the way down, fitting just neatly, against her hips—the way he _whimpers_ into the kiss, the sound electric with pleasure, shooting _right_ to the juncture of her thighs—

 _Okay_ , she thinks, feeling strange and ready and _new_. _Well—_ okay _. We can work with this._

(There are many skills, it turns out, that can be improved with patience and enthusiasm. And she might still have a lot to learn, about him—but she's a _very_ eager student.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ha ha ha can you imagine when i started this i was like 'okay, self, for this one let's do a little extra challenge: you may use _one_ (1) italics, this time'
> 
> ANYWAY, much like the last chapter: many and complicated thoughts on this fill (rushed, inexpert, trying to fit too much into too little space, etc.) but i have finally made public two of my most deeply held headcanons for these two, so i suppose i may die content. :')


	7. feral

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> oops! all angst · bad coffee au · NOT 'canon' with the other fills in this fic · tender hesitant revealing-of-self to the beloved... just destroy me guillermo

This is bad, he thinks, as he ducks the scalpel flying at his head. This is— _incredibly_ bad. Bad in a way he'd never expected he'd encounter, nowadays, but at the same time in a way that is somehow undeniably familiar.

The thought is—perversely—almost reassuring. Young Atlas had sounded terrified, on the phone, and at the time, Stricklander had simply chalked it up to the usual: a combination of Blinkous' inept and predictably unimaginative trollish instruction, and simple human softness. _We've got a problem_ , the boy had said, like this was nothing worse than a cursebox or particularly tricky piece of enchanting. _D'you think—how soon could you meet us at Lennox and Vitry?_

Obviously, he'd wasted no time heading over. (He may very well be a monster, but the boy is still his favorite.) That intersection was just by the hospital, familiar enough from all the times he'd met Barbara for lunch, what seems like a lifetime ago. At the time, he'd hardly thought anything of it.

This, though? Is considerably worse than 'a problem.'

He ducks again, wide-eyed, as Barbara swings at him a second time. She doesn't know how to fight—it's so obvious, from this close—and the thought sends a pang through him, something biting and soft. The long, thin blade in her grip is the kind meant for autopsies, not combat, but if she's bothered by it she doesn't seem to notice; as the long, jagged tear in his jacket attests, it's been no obstacle to her so far.

"Y'know, Walt—I think I liked you better when you were vanished." It's so strange, to hear her voice like this; buzzing, dizzy, half-drunk and half-laughing from the sand. "Which is kind of funny, don't you think? The first one divorced me, the second one _ditched_ me—"

He just sidesteps again, neatly as he can, and summons another knife to his hand. Ordinarily he wouldn't have dared, not in front of a human, but he's trying not to hurt her, which means he's ( _stupidly_ ) let her get awfully close, and she's already knocked one out of his grip. It'll be easy enough to explain as sleight of hand, after; _please_ , a quiet, desperate part of him thinks, _please, my Lady, let there_ be _an after_ —

"—and _now_ , it's like nothing's even changed, because I still have no _fucking_ clue why!"

Her eyes are _gleaming_ , in the low light of the hospital hall, manic and burning, lovely-and-terrible to behold. He tries, desperately, not to think of how beautiful she is—how, in _any_ other circumstances, the sight would've had him, in a heartbeat, on his knees.

"Barbara." He tries to keep his voice calm and collected, even as they continue their little dance along the hallway. Tries to think how to explain—to a _human doctor_ , who _hates_ him—what's happening to her, to talk her down before she can't be brought back. "I—I know I'm the last person you wanted to see. But something's wrong. You're not thinking clearly—"

She feints with the knife, and he actually flinches—stupid, _stupid_!—but when she sees it, she just laughs again. A cold, empty, unfamiliar sound.

"See? I told you it was funny, running into you like this." She says it all soft and quick, like she's letting him in on a secret, like the thought of it doesn't send something cold and awful twisting in his gut. "'Cause—you say that, right. But now, with you back? _Man_. I haven't been thinking this clearly in _ages_."

He swallows. That's—not good. It's not like they've ever exactly _tested_ grave sand on humans, but—he knows what it's like, once you hit that cocky, careless bravado. The thrumming in your bones, the choking taste of vitriol high and _singing_ in your throat—

She's swinging at him again before he can finish the thought, though, a wide, wild arc that comes far too close to his face for comfort. It's inexpert, fueled more by passion than precision—made worse, too, by the fact he can't, that he _won't_ really fight her back—but that's little comfort when she's aiming for his _eyes_.

"This isn't _you_ , Barbara." He's got to get that knife away from her; otherwise he's just going to keep letting her in, high and angry and _hurt_ , and even for all he feels for her he knows there's only one way that path will end. "Please. Whatever you think you saw, whatever you remember—"

"I _know_ what I remember."

After coming off a charm from the _Book of Ga-Huel_? He doubts it. But her eyes just flash again, and—

"I _know_ what I remember," she hisses. The stubborn irritation in her voice is real, _angry_ , something somehow achingly familiar; she must have guessed what he was thinking. "The problem—the _problem_ is. Just because it's all this weird, endless magical bullshit—that doesn't mean I'm making it _up_ —"

Her voice hitches, then—just a crack in her bright, fool-brave mask. Just enough to betray the uncertainty, the lonely _agony_ , simmering underneath.

It's not much. And the thought feels—awful, to have about her.

_But an opening is an opening._ He tries not to flinch at the thought, ringing around his head in an echo of an echo of Kodanth's voice. _You know there's only one way this is going to end. Press the advantage while you can, Stricklander, before she thinks to do the same. Before she nicks you deep enough to see you don't really bleed red. Before this softness gets you killed, or_ worse _—_

He shakes his head. Even now, even _compromised_ , he's still _very_ good at what he does—but even _he_ isn't vain enough he can't recognize this is his fault. He might be a monster, but he's got to try to help her.

She lunges, again. As he dodges, this time, he can see his own eyes glowing like the moon in the long, cold flat of her blade; he only hesitates for a second before catching it on the back of his own. For a brief, insane moment, she just looks surprised, but then her expression shifts right back to _mad_. She moves to drive the knife home, throwing all of her force behind the blow, but she's still trying to recover her footing, from earlier, and they tussle for a moment, the only sound around them steel grating on steel.

But hot and raw and _mad_ as she is, she's no professional. Not at this. He's prepared for her, when she winds up again, pushing his own knife up and throwing her off-balance, and this time, when she draws her arm back again to press the blow home, just as she throws all of her force behind the blade—

He banishes his knife. She overcorrects, trying to compensate for the sudden absence of anything to push against, but she overshoots her mark, and he catches her wrist easily in his now-empty hand. 

She realizes what he's doing, of course. As soon as it happens, she lets out a strangled, wild _sound_ , and swings at him with her free hand. Even on grave sand, though, she's still only human. Catching her fist from so close—the pale and bloodless shadow, he thinks, of holding her hand in his—is practically child's play.

They stand in a stalemate like that, just for a moment. Just catching their breath, in the abandoned hall. She's still—fighting him, obviously, and he's trying very determinedly not to think about the hot, angry tears in her eyes; about what he's going to have to do next.

"Barbara," he breathes, once he's worked up the courage to speak. "Listen to me. _Please_. You must be able to tell there's something wrong, here."

"No _shit_ , Strickler—"

Still all bright indignant fire, because of course she is. The thought aches, with fondness. But they're running out of _time_.

"I'm serious." And he _is_ , which is almost the most surprising thing about this. His voice is so earnest—something he hasn't heard on himself, not in a long age—it's almost startling. "I know what you're feeling"—an admission which, he realizes belatedly, comes perilously close to a _truth_ ; even if he can't call it back, not now, not before her—"because I've felt it, too. And I can _help_ you, but—"

"I don't want your help!"

He tries not to flinch, even at a blow so well-deserved.

"You don't want _this_ , Barbara." He knows he's pleading. That he must sound—pathetic, like this. But somehow, he can't exactly bring himself to care. "Trust me, you don't."

"I want _nothing_ ," she spits. "Anytime I do—anything, _anyone_ I've ever wanted _leaves_. Including you, asshole—" Her voice cracks, and—it _aches_ , to hear her so raw. But he couldn't stop her, now, even if he wanted to. "So why should I listen to you, if—if I'm just going to remember, even things I shouldn't be _able_ to remember, and—and you're just going to leave me, _again_?"

It's the sand talking, he knows. He _knows_. Irrational and too-fast, none of her clever, careful observation or relentless human optimism. None of which makes hearing it any easier. Because—he needs to shake her out of this, but what can he _possibly_ say, to that?

A quiet, terrible idea occurs to him.

Even after—after everything, she'd remembered him. That he left. And a memory that strong—strong enough to survive Vendel's charmbreaking, to persist through the unworking of part of the _Book of Ga-Huel_ —would need something substantial, to dislodge it.

And—there's one thing he can do, he thinks. One thing that wouldn't— _hurt_ her, per se, but which might, still, be just _substantial_ enough to jar her out of this.

He swallows. It's not a good idea, objectively. Kodanth would've killed him for it, and in his late mentor's absence, he's certain the Trollhunter would be only too happy to do the same. And the thought of Kodanth and a _human Trollhunter_ ever agreeing on something—it might as well have been a sign from the Lady Herself.

But Kodanth is dead. And Young Atlas—well.

(Jim had _asked_ for his help, after all. And after this—assuming, _praying_ that it works—Barbara will never speak to him again. So, really, isn't it almost like doing the boy a favor?)

"Barbara," he says, very softly. He swallows hard, and tries to steel himself; he should have known, part of him hisses, he should've _known_ that it would always come to this. Every part of him wants to resist the idea. But in the end—if it's for her, he can't mind, not terribly. "Barbara—you were right."

Her eyes blaze like stoked coals in the gloom of the hall. "I don't need you to tell me that—"

"I know." _I know that I hurt you_ is too hard to voice, even now, so—coward that he is—he simply leaves it unsaid. "But—there's something I need to show you. Just once, and then—"

He dares a glance down to her, even if he knows he won't be able to bear it for more than a moment.

"And then I'll let go," he says, softly. "Just let me show you this one thing, and then—I'll let you fight me, if you want. How—how does that sound?"

The light in her eyes flickers, just for a moment.

"What do you mean," she breathes, " _show me_."

He shoots her a nervous smile, part of him trying desperately not to laugh. To—to appreciate the moment, to memorize everything about it—even like this, shivering like a child, standing across from a human woman half delirious on grave sand. The last memory he'll have of her knowing him as anything but a monster.

"You'll see," he says. Just softly, as he lets go of her wrists. "Only— _forgive me, darling_."

He says the last bit in _nǒnat—_ without thinking, on reflex. Even knowing she won't understand; that she _couldn't_. One more thing he's kept from her, even if it's only one more entry penned onto a very long list.

But for some things—for _her_ , he thinks—there are rules.

He closes his eyes, and swallows, hard.

And then: he shifts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the knife poor barb has gotten hold of is a [liston knife](https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Liston-type_amputation_knife,_London,_England,_1920-1930_Wellcome_L0057711.jpg), designed for use in amputations (and hence extremely sharp).
> 
> only one more prompt to go...! 👀


	8. tides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> future fic · beach episode · X-TREME FLUFF™

He's still face-down in the blanket when she lifts her eyes from her book. _Sunbathing_ , so he'd claimed; dozing, probably, by now. (He's a light sleeper, but an easier one, lately, especially with the sun still so high in the sky.) It's not exactly a _guilty_ pleasure, watching him sleep. And she doesn't want to disturb him. Especially not when they're on vacation. _Especially_ not that they've finally gotten a moment truly to themselves.

But—still. He is very handsome, and also, her husband. Part of her argues: she can't exactly resist.

She slips the bookmark back over the page, and turns just slightly to face him in her chair. Just slightly; not so much as to disturb, but just enough to get a better look. The kids are busy down closer to the water, Zelda and Otto mobbing Jim at the grill while little Walt helps Claire with setting up the tent, and—it's peaceful, like this. Very domestic. Very much something she knows he'd never really expected for himself, which makes the sight of it very soft.

He must really be sleeping, she thinks, the longer she watches him. His breaths are so regular, his expression so serene. The sunlight casts his features into sharp, perfect relief: salt-and-pepper hair, the soft, creamy stone of his horns, little flecks of gold like freckles all over his shoulders ( _aventurescence_ , the internet had called it). The pearl earring gleams, hanging from his right ear—the balance, the other half to the knife that's still, even now, resting on their bedroom dresser. Miles away in Arcadia, and close enough she need only reach for it, because her husband taught her _magic_.

Laid out in the sun like this—and knowing him like she does, after all this time—it's easy to see how relaxed he is. Watching him like this doesn't feel quite nearly as voyeuristic as she'd once expected it would, but it does feel—well. Like a privilege, somehow; heavy and fond, all in one. One she's acutely aware of, and one she's grateful for, all the same.

(That's not all there is to see, of course. Changelings scar just like humans do, and his are a familiar sight, now, highlighted like lightning in the full afternoon sun. She's learned the stories behind some of them, after this long. Not all of them—the one that goes through his wing, into his shoulder, is still all a mystery, one she's waiting to be invited in for—but some of them, sure. The one just over where a human kidney would be; the ones she remembers, the ones that she sometimes dreams of feeling, even now, curling just barely visible round the left side of his neck.)

She's so absorbed in her dumb romo ogling that she only just barely notices the shift in his breath. But when his eye flicks open, all gold and startled and wide—

"Barbara," he breathes. Like he's still, somehow, faintly surprised to see her, even after all this time.

She can't resist a little snort, perched up in her beach chair.

" _Morning_ , handsome."

He blinks, blearily, trying very busily to look like he wasn't asleep. And—well. She loves to tease. But how can she not take pity, on her good husband?

"You didn't miss much," she reassures him, when she sees how tense he is. "The kids are insisting we 'take it easy,' so we're still banished. Something about guarding 'secret ingredients...?'" ~~~~

" _Secret ingredients_?" He thinks for a moment, as if trying to remember. Then: his eyes go wide again. "Wait. Young Atlas— _dinner_ —"

"Little Walt got the tent almost all the way up before the charm broke, this time. But I think he and Claire've gotten it under control, by now." Then, because the memory is still fond: "The triplets practically chased me away, when I went to check in on them. They were _very_ insistent."

Something in him relaxes, then. Almost tangibly, from this close.

"Still," he murmurs. "I should have—mm. I didn't mean to actually fall asleep, you know."

Because she's known him as long as she has, she can tell what he actually means is: _I've gotten soft, like this_. And she knows, too, that in some ways, it's almost true; that he used to think nothing of pushing himself to—to keep himself awake, through the day, like a human would for an all-nighter. Every day, for years, for _centuries_ , just because it was asked of him.

So: she reaches over, to stroke his arm. Just lightly.

"Falling asleep to sunshine and the sound of waves?" The fondness and affection are plain in her voice, but somehow, she can't entirely bring herself to care. "Wow, babe. How _very_ dare you."

He hums, a little self-conscious. "It's only the—w _hat do you call it._ The white noise." Then, just a shade petulant: "It's so _warm_ , here in the sun—"

His voice has gone so soft; still-sleepy, almost creaky, like it's being filtered through cotton balls. It makes her feel something _dangerously_ sentimental.

But all she says is: "Wow. You really _were_ conked out, weren't you?"

He mumbles something softly offended, mostly into the crook of his elbow. ( _Definitely_ not complaining, and _definitely_ not in English.) But there's no real fire to it, and even if she can't quite make it out, his expression is unmistakably fond.

They just sit like that, for a while. Him still on the blanket, her still in her chair. It's—nice. Just existing. Jim and Claire are being dorky and sweet, and she's trying not to stare, and—she's also trying not to stare at the kids, who have by now surrounded the firepit and are doing something obviously magical to it.

_Don't think about it too hard, Barb. Claire's there. Walt's right here._ She takes a deep breath, trying (only half-successfully) to tamp down the worry. _Your kids can do magic, and they can be safe. Because_ you _can do magic, because your_ husband _is magic, too._

He must be able to guess what she's thinking, because of course he can. "They've come a long way, _áhttar_."

She'd been so absorbed in the thought she hadn't realized how he's watching her, now. But—she refuses to be self-conscious.

"They're not the only ones," she points out. Then, because part of her somehow still can't resist: "I mean, I gotta say. I never used to think of you as a _beach shorts_ kind of guy."

"...My dear. We're at the beach."

"Oh really? I hadn't noticed."

He snorts. "Surely you, of all people, can appreciate the value of pockets."

"Not to mention fabric that can handle some water."

She shoots a meaningful look down towards the shore. Which—he notices. And she _notices_ him noticing.

"We _are_ at the beach," she says, not entirely apologetically.

"Isn't it dangerous to swim before eating?"

"Other way around. Also: that's a myth."

" _Really_?"

"Pretty sure I read a journal article on it, once."

He buries his face in the blanket again, half-thoughtful. But—to be fair, she thinks—he did just wake up.

"Tell you what," she says, setting her book down under her chair. "Dinner's still a fair ways off, but..." She shoots him a playful sideways glance, and offers him her hand. It's playing dirty, a little—but she's learned from the best. "If the kids see the old folks enjoying themselves, maybe we can weasel some samples out of them. What d'you say?"

He huffs, fondly, into the crook of his arm. "I'm not sure making a fool of myself in front of teenagers counts as 'enjoying myself.'"

"Aw, c'mon. I've got it on very good authority that you're a _keen swimmer_."

He groans. A defeated, delightful sound, the blush unmistakable over his cheek.

"I'm never going to live that down, am I?"

She still remembers the way he'd said it: like it was the perfectly normal response to _you can fly?!_ , like it was a joke, just between them. Like he hadn't just lost a secret he'd spent centuries protecting, all to save _her_.

The memory still sends a pang through her, biting and tender. _Bitter and sweet_ , she thinks. Charm and memory, schnapps and sachertorte.

So: she offers him her hand.

"Like I told you," she says. "We take all kinds, here."

He laughs, almost despite himself. Takes her hand in his.

Then, they pull themselves up together, and head down towards the waves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and that's it! i can't believe i really made it through all of these ~~even if the last one was a little late~~. (i'm sure i might have more coherent thoughts on these at some point, but for now i remain simply... _very soft_.) for more yelling/occasional wip sneak peeks, feel free to check out my [tumblr](dreamcrow.tumblr.com); if you've made it this far, thanks for sticking with me 💖


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